


Walk Like a Man

by courfsprouvaire



Series: Lamarque Law Firm [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Lawyer fic, M/M, in which Montparnasse is a creep, it's like Suits but not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courfsprouvaire/pseuds/courfsprouvaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Courfeyrac and Combeferre, two lawyers of the Lamarque Law Firm, show up to speak with their firm’s rival, Courfeyrac’s night doesn’t go quite like he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk Like a Man

**Author's Note:**

> I originally uploaded this to Tumblr and it got a good response so I figured I'd bring it here. Enjoy!

It didn’t come as a surprise to Courfeyrac that the idea of this whole outing being a business matter rather than a night out had went completely unnoticed by Grantaire as soon as the two of them (with Combeferre trailing behind) stepped into the club. After stating that he liked to mix business with pleasure, Grantaire made his way straight to the bar and Courfeyrac knew that would be the last time he would see him until it was time to leave and, even then, they would struggle to detach his behind from one of the barstools.

Courfeyrac sighed and turned to face Combeferre, deciding that the departure of Grantaire shouldn’t be any deterrence. As long as Enjolras didn’t find out that his most loyal paralegal wasn’t following the orders he had been given, Courfeyrac wouldn’t tell him and he knew Combeferre wouldn’t either, just so they could both avoid the guilt they would feel having to look at Grantaire’s face when he realised that he had disappointed Enjolras yet again.

Running a hand through his hair, feeling a little uneasy in these surroundings despite frequenting clubs plenty of times before (although not on this side of the city), Courfeyrac had to raise his voice to allow Combeferre to hear him over the music.

“Should we split up?” he half-yelled, the top button of his shirt beginning to feel restricting and much too professional for such a setting. Usually when he was in a place like this, he was Courfeyrac the partier, the guy who flirted with anyone and everyone and was known for keeping spirits high. Now, with his shirt on, tucked into his grey trousers and a black tie securely fitted around his neck, he was Courfeyrac the lawyer and this version of Courfeyrac was much different from Courfeyrac the partier and being in such unfamiliar territory made him nervous.

Luckily for him, he was with Combeferre, the ever adaptable Combeferre who was much calmer than him at that moment, his eyes surveying the scene in front of him, unperturbed by the dancing, the grinding, the drinking and the kissing going on in front of him, simply pushing his glasses further up his nose and looking back at Courfeyrac.

“That’s not necessary,” he said, not shouting as loudly as Courfeyrac had but raising his voice all the same. Seeing Courfeyrac’s frown he nodded subtly to his left and the other man turned to rest his eyes on the exact person they had been looking for.

With a silent nod between them, they both walked forward, manoeuvring in and out of the mass of sweaty, dancing bodies on the dance floor, emerging together on the other side and strolling up to booth where Montparnasse sat, surrounded by his own co-workers, shirt unbuttoned and looking less than professional. Courfeyrac supposed they couldn’t hold that against him though as he hadn’t exactly been expecting them.

His face did not betray that though as when the girl sitting next to him quickly elbowed him, his head snapped up to see the two of them approaching his table and his lips twisted into a smirk.

“Ah, it’s Porthos and Aramis,” he greeted them, cheerily, immediately putting Courfeyrac on edge. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Is Athos around as well?”

“Enjolras isn’t here, no.” It was Combeferre who spoke first. To someone who didn’t know the quiet lawyer very well, they would say he was unfazed by the almost malicious grin Montparnasse was sending his way but for Courfeyrac, who had known him ever since college, it was easy to spot the way his hands were clenched into fists, his posture stiff and his glasses inching down his nose ever so slightly with the man making no attempt to stop them.

He wanted to be here as much as Courfeyrac did (hint: Courfeyrac would rather be in the middle of an argument between Enjolras and Grantaire at that moment).

Montparnasse leaned back in his seat and ran his thumb and forefinger around the rim of an empty scotch glass.

“Well, that’s a pity,” he drawled. “It’s typical of Enjolras to send his messenger pigeons to do his dirty work for him. I guess this place isn’t up to the standards of his holiness.”

Before Courfeyrac could open his mouth to angrily retort, Combeferre had moved ever so slightly to press the back of his hand against Courfeyrac’s, silently warning him to not say anything. He remained quiet but only to not cause a scene. If it were up to him, Montparnasse would be wearing that empty glass.

“We wish to talk to you about the Monsieur Madeleine case,” Combeferre began and immediately Montparnasse held up a hand to stop him.

“This couldn’t have waited until business hours?” he asked.

“Enjolras called your office sixteen times today. You didn’t respond and this needs to be dealt with before our meeting with our client early tomorrow. We heard you usually frequented this bar and decided it was an urgent matter we needed to discuss with you,” Combeferre said, becoming more and more rigid by the second. Courfeyrac was practically seething at his side.

“Apologies,” replied Montparnasse, looking disinterested and almost tired as the conversation took a turn from his teasing and became more professional. “I did not realise you had called. It must have been the fault of my secretary. I’ll speak to him when he—ah, here he comes now.”

The tone of his voice made Courfeyrac doubt that the calls ignored by Montparnasse were the fault of his secretary but, nevertheless, he turned to look over his shoulder to see whom the other lawyer was referring to.

Immediately, his whole body straightened.

Heading their way with a tray full of drinks, all different sizes and colours was a man unlike any other Courfeyrac had seen before. He was hardly one to use such cheesy clichés like that but, really, he had honestly never once in his life seen someone so delicate looking, with a ribbon woven through his curls and a woollen kitten sweater pulled over a pink-collared shirt.

Surely this couldn’t be the secretary Montparnasse had been referring to? He seemed so… Well, put it this way, there was no way in hell Courfeyrac would ever be able to picture a guy who dressed like that working for someone like Montparnasse.

He brushed past Courfeyrac, accidentally catching his arm with the tray of drinks. “Sorry!” he squeaked, setting the tray down on the table.

Courfeyrac said nothing, unable to stop staring at the smaller figure until Montparnasse’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.

“Jehan, these are two of the Lamarque lawyers,” he heard him say, not sure who he was talking to until he looked up to see his eyes trained on the newcomer. “You forgot to mention to me that they called today.”

There was something about the tone of voice he was using that made Courfeyrac’s fingers twitch. He didn’t like it.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one to feel like that.

“Actually, I heard him tell you earlier that you needed to call them ba—“ piped up the girl sitting next to Montparnasse, an indignant look on her face.

She was immediately cut off by a sharp “Eponine!” from her boss and paused, looking like she was about to argue back but apparently thought better of it and slumped back in her seat, silently fuming. Courfeyrac couldn’t blame her.

“I’m sorry,” a small voice piped up, almost inaudible despite the table being situated in one of the quieter corners of the club.

Courfeyrac turned his attention back to Jehan, now blushing and absent-mindedly fidgeting with the bottom of his shirt that had slipped out from underneath the kitten sweater. “I-I guess I forgot to pass the message along.”

“It’s not your fault,” Courfeyrac heard himself say. He was only speaking the truth. Already, he, Combeferre and Enjolras had figured that Montparnasse would try ignoring them, delaying the forthcoming meeting between the two firms for the upcoming case. It was by no means the fault of the man in front of him who looked like he believed his head was going to be bitten off any second. “We’re here now.”

He wasn’t entirely sure if his urge to reassure him went beyond the fact that it was simply the right thing to do but he found himself doing so anyway and at his words, Jehan looked up, eyes wide with questioning as if he wasn’t used to this kind of behaviour. The thought made Courfeyrac’s stomach feel uneasy.

“Well, what is it you want to discuss?” Montparnasse asked, his eyes narrowing as he took in the exchange between his secretary and Courfeyrac, not looking thrilled about it.

“Can we go somewhere quieter?” Combeferre asked, apparently the only one who was still focusing on the reason he and Courfeyrac had even ventured into the club.

Montparnasse didn’t answer right away, appearing to be debating with himself before he let out a sigh and began shuffling out of the booth.

“Fine,” he relented then turned to Jehan. “Bring your notepad.”

At once, Jehan scrambled over the table to grab the notepad lying on it, turning around so quickly after it that he walked straight into Courfeyrac, dropping both the pad and his pen. This went unnoticed by Montparnasse who was walking ahead with Combeferre.

Chuckling a little, Courfeyrac bent down to pick the objects up at the same time as Jehan did, the two of them grabbing the notepad together. Jehan’s hand stilled, giving Courfeyrac a chance to take a peek at the page filled with doodles of flowers and lines of…were those poems?

Realising what it was Courfeyrac was looking at, Jehan yanked the notepad from his grasp with a force that genuinely surprised Courfeyrac. Then he was up on his feet and scurrying after his boss.

Courfeyrac grinned and followed him, matching his pace easily, which only made Jehan blush further.

“So you write poetry?” Courfeyrac asked as they walked out of the main area of the club, passing Grantaire on their way who must have been on his sixth or seventh vodka shot and still managed to be conscious.

“Um, yes,” Jehan mumbled when they were in a quieter area.

“They look short.”

“Oh, those ones are actually haikus.”

“Haik-what-who-now?”

The giggle from Jehan that followed Courfeyrac’s puzzlement made the lawyer smile much more than he probably should have.

“Haikus,” he said again, putting extra emphasis on the word in a bolder voice than he had been used only a moment ago. “They’re basically—“

“Jehan!” came the sharp sound of Montparnasse’s voice who was leaning against a wall in the foyer with Combeferre. At the call, Jehan’s shoulders slumped at once and he walked forward towards the other man.

It took all of Courfeyrac’s willpower to not let out a sigh of annoyance.

He joined Combeferre who was reciting details to Montparnasse of when they should meet to discuss the trial. Montparnasse looked like he couldn’t care less and left it up to Jehan to furiously scribble down the details into his notepad.

While Courfeyrac would have liked to say he was also concentrating on what was important at that moment, he would have been lying. Instead of helping Combeferre, he found himself preoccupied with staring at Jehan and that damn kitten sweater. His eyes trailed unashamedly up Jehan’s tiny stature, dwarfed slightly by the jumper. He was unable to look away when Jehan’s nose wrinkled slightly, twitching as if he had an itch. Courfeyrac could honestly say that he had never seen anything more adorable in his life, except maybe the way Jehan’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to keep up with what Combeferre was saying, his tongue poking out from between his lips as he wrote.

From where he was standing, the lighting made it near impossible for him to work out the exact colour of Jehan’s eyes so he was thankful when the secretary looked up and Courfeyrac could see them clearly. Of course, he realised a few seconds too late that he could now see Jehan’s eyes because they were looking at him directly and probably wondering why the hell he had been staring at Jehan for the past five minutes.

He only managed to tear his eyes away from the other man when Montparnasse spoke up.

“Why don’t you take a picture, Courfeyrac? It lasts longer and doesn’t make you seem as creepy.”

The lawyer scoffed and looked everywhere but Jehan – or at least he tried to for about three seconds before he glanced at him again only to see a blush creeping up his neck. It would have made him smile had that been the only thing there.

In the short space of time he had to drink in the sight of Jehan before it was deemed ‘creepy’ again, he spotted a small line of bruises rising up from the pink collar of his shirt. At first he frowned slightly, wondering what the hell they were but then he realised that these bruises hadn’t been caused by heavy fingers or a blow to the neck but…by someone’s teeth.

Hickeys.

This time, he deliberately looked away himself, not needing anyone else to tell him to. He wasn’t judgmental, absolutely not. Courfeyrac was probably one of the least judgmental people there was in the world, but he would be lying if he told anyone that Jehan, adorable Jehan with his kitten sweater and ribbons and poems that weren’t actually poems, turning out to be the kind of guy that happily received hickeys wasn’t a shock for him.

Apparently he hadn’t been quick to look away however as Jehan was now blushing and fidgeting with his collar, trying to pull it up to hide the bruises.

Inwardly cursing himself, Courfeyrac’s full attention was now given to his brown leather shoes.

“So, I’ll get Jehan to drop the file off tomorrow if I can trust he won’t be subject to the predatory stares of your co-worker,” Montparnasse told Combeferre, causing Courfeyrac to shove his hands deep down into his trouser pockets so he wouldn’t do anything he’d regret.

Combferre only responded with, “That’s fine. I’ll see you at the meeting.” He kept glancing sideways at Courfeyrac who was fully aware of the pointed looks being given to him but he paid his friend no heed.

Instead, he looked up at the sound of retreating footsteps to see Montparnasse put his arm around Jehan’s waist and slip his hand into the back pocket of his secretary’s jeans.

The sudden nausea that Courfeyrac felt was only heightened when Jehan looked over his shoulder back at Courfeyrac, the tinge of red still prominent on his cheeks, before he rounded the corner back into the club, the hickeys still noticeable on his neck.

He barely registered Combeferre telling him to head back to the car and wait while he fetched Grantaire, only doing as the other man asked when he shoved him slightly towards the door.

Courfeyrac wasn’t entirely sure why he was feeling the way he was as he walked to the car, unlocking it and sliding in and waiting for Combeferre who soon joined him and deposited a crooning Grantaire into the backseat. He really had no right to feel frustrated at the fact that Montparnasse and Jehan had somehow ended up being an item despite the almost dismissive way the older man had treated the poem-writing, kitten sweater-wearing _woodland creature_. It wasn’t his business.

He tried to push it to the back of his mind, figuring he had just not expected his night to end like that and that the thought of Montparnasse’s mouth going anywhere near Jehan’s neck didn’t actually bother him.

This was what he kept telling himself when he got home and powered up his computer, going to straight to Google to try and find out what the hell a damn haiku was.


End file.
